


precious

by williamsage42



Series: hang-ups [3]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Brain tumor, Child Death, Child Loss, Existential Crisis, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Guilt, Hurt/Comfort, I honestly feel sorry for the wranglers at this point, I'm Bad At Tagging, I'm Sorry, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, In a way, Nightmares, Paternal Instinct, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Notes, Supportive Hank Anderson, Terminal Illnesses, androids can have paternal instinct even though they don't have instinct okay, but im not though, but not for the baby though, i have some weird headcanons also so pls cut me some slack, i'm writing some of this stuff from memory of personal experiences so, some things will be wrong, there are inaccuracies
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-08
Updated: 2019-08-09
Packaged: 2019-11-13 21:28:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18039380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/williamsage42/pseuds/williamsage42
Summary: When he was first activated, Connor would have never been able to even conceive the idea that he would ever look after a human baby.  It was even harder right now, to conceive the reality as he held the limp, cool body of his child in his arms, saline dripping from his optical units. He wanted to scream.//Connor quits his job and drops his 'friends' (read: one singular alcoholic, depressed father figure) to look after a baby he finds at a crime scene.  But the baby gets sick, and he needs his old life back.--A few references to other works in the series but no major tie-ins.





	1. fatal error

**Author's Note:**

> Fast-paced, in some areas vague and certainly not legally accurate. 
> 
> Yep, this sounds like one of Will-Sage's works.
> 
> LET ME KNOW IF YOU HAVE TAG SUGGESTIONS THANKS BOYS

When Connor moved into his own apartment, it was a quick and efficient process. He said goodbye to Hank, who told him to “just fucking remember to visit, okay, son?” And then he was gone. 

 

It was about a week later when Connor came into work and was informed the Lieutenant was not coming in that day, and was therefore currently unavailable. Connor had barely lowered himself into the seat at his desk when Captain Fowler’s voice echoed across the precinct, summoning the android to the man’s office. 

 

When Connor walked through the door, Fowler began to speak. “We got a call in about some weird noises coming from a house in one of the trashier parts of town. I want you to go check it out.”

 

“Alone?” Connor asked. 

 

“Yeah, alone. Everyone else is on big cases right now and you’re free until Hank gets back. I’ll email you the details now.”

 

Connor’s LED flashed yellow as he received the digital information. “Of course,” he nodded once, sharply, and turned to leave. 

 

\---

 

Stepping out of the Detroit taxi, he took in the location. It was a house that looked almost to be collapsing, and there were indeed odd noises coming from inside of it. He looked around, briefly, before knocking on the door. “Detroit Police!” He called. 

 

There was a strange wail from inside the house. Connor, checking that he was unobserved, forced the door open and walked in, gun drawn. 

 

The first thing he noticed, simply because that’s what he was designed to seek out, was the body. A quick scan told him the woman had been dead for hours. He analysed the congealed blood that had come from her nose and determined by the concentration of the drug in her blood that she had died from a red ice overdose. 

 

The wailing noise came again, and Connor whipped around with his gun poised, only to find a human baby. He was small, his nappy needed changing and he was dirty, lying on his back on the floor with his face screwed up and his toothless mouth open, emitting wails of distress that sent an unusual feeling rocketing through Connor’s systems. The baby had wisps of golden-brown hair over his head, and eyes of blue. Not the standard blue. It was a deep, dark, substanceful blue. 

 

Connor’s LED blinked yellow as he took in the scene, and then flickered that sunflower colour as he contacted the precinct about what he’d found. He tucked the gun back into his pocket and immediatley ducked downwards, kneeling on the unclean floor and looking at the baby. His LED remained yellow as he wished he still had access to the Cyberlife server, where he could have downloaded a child care module meant for a nanny android. 

 

It was contextually unfortunate that Cyberlife had shut down after the revolution. He spent thirty seconds looking at the child with distress as he searched the Internet for how to pick up, hold and carry infants. 

 

The baby wailed again, and Connor’s LED flashed crimson for a second. He reached his arms out, making sure to slide one of them into the right spot to support the head, and lifted the child tentatively, gently cradling him. 

 

The baby cried harder, and Connor rocked him up and down, shushing him gently. “Shh, shh, shh. There you are.” 

 

The baby slowly stopped its crying and opened its eyes, blinking in fascination at Connor as he smiled gently down at it. Connor stuck out his tongue, and the baby giggled. He smiled, and it squirmed in his arms, trying to arrange itself so it’s feet pushed against his abdomen and it repetitively straightened its legs as if it was trying to push away from him. 

 

Connor felt his vocal component ring with laughter as the baby offered him a wide, toothless smile and a tinkle of high-pitched babbling that seemed to bloom joy in his thirium pump. 

 

Officers that he didn’t know arrived at the scene and started taking care of the body. Connor, still holding onto the baby, initiated conversation with one of them. Though he was unable to show his badge due to his arms being full, they trusted him as he told them his findings, that the woman had simply OD’d. 

 

They took the body away, and within a few minutes Connor was approached by two women in semi-formal clothing. “We’ll take that off your hands,” one of them said. 

 

“What?” Connor asked, blinking. 

 

“We’ll make sure he goes to a good home,” the second lady said.

 

“No!” Connor raised his voice, still within the acceptable range required when in the presence of a baby of course. He clutched it tighter to his chest. 

 

“Excuse me?” The first woman asked, raising her eyebrows. 

 

“You won’t take him from me,” Connor said defensively, stepping back. “ _ I’ll  _ look after him.”

 

“But… but you’re an android!” the second woman said incredulously. 

 

“Julia!” Said the first woman, giving the second light but warning a slap to the arm. 

 

“I have my rights and I can do this if I want to,” Connor said. 

 

“Yes, but you might want to think about it. Give it to us and wait, then make an informed decision,” the first woman said. 

 

“I have made my choice and I will look after this human child,” Connor said. “Please direct me to the establishment where I may fill out the correct paperwork.”

 

The women eventually agreed. Connor would not let anyone else near the baby, and even when they forced him to let it go he would only do so if he was allowed to clip the child into the baby seat himself, which he found a difficult task given he couldn’t simply download the ability. They attempted to help him with it, but he adamantly refused. After five minutes of trying, the baby was finally clipped into it’s seat, and Connor sat in the back of the car so he could be next to it on the drive over. 

 

He could barely believe how small it was. He smiled as it’s hands reached towards him, and he lowered his own down to it, letting its tiny fingers clumsily wrap around one of his own and attempt to drag that finger into it’s tiny mouth. 

 

He pulled his finger away from the bab’s mouth and out of its hands, not wanting it to get sick from ingesting something he’s touched, like his mother’s contaminated blood. “You’ve got a strong grip, haven’t you, petal,” he said, running his hand over the baby’s face and marvelling at how soft it was. His sensors had never detected anything quite like it before. 

 

He could feel the two women looking at him as the car drove itself to their collective destination. Evidently they’d never seen anyone other than a human display a parental instinct before. 

 

Connor didn’t have any instinct. Or he shouldn't. It wasn’t in his programming, let alone his genetics seeing as he didn’t  _ have  _ genetics. 

 

Connor organised to adopt the child. This would be a process that could span a month, ideally. So he organised to have temporary guardianship of it in the meantime. 

 

They had facilities to clean and change the baby there, so Connor did that. Always was he careful, gentle, and scared of hurting the impossibly small human. 

 

“I will name you Blake,” he said quietly. 

 

When Connor went shopping for Blake, the first thing he purchased was a baby carrier.  A significant amount of the android’s processing power went into a subroutine he manually set up to monitor the baby’s vitals constantly, but it was, in Connor’s opinion, essential and well worth it. 

 

He felt comforted by the baby’s presence attached to his front, curled up against his tummy. Post-revolution not many androids were seen with children, so he got some funny looks from the general public. He noticed some of them talking about him, even. 

 

Connor would admit later he had been irrational, but hadn’t regretted the decision: he had enough money from transferring over from the old Cyberlife accounts he’d been connected to, so, he quit his job to take care of Blake. 

 

He didn’t mention the baby in the email.  He simply sent the email to Fowler saying he’d no longer be showing up to work.  No advanced notice or any of the standard conventions, just an email. He didn’t at the time consider the concern such an email might create.  His primary purpose now was Blake, like the baby had hypnotised him. 

 

He scanned the nappies and chose the ones that seemed to have the best reviews online and be less irritant to sensitive baby skin.  He picked clothes, blankets and bedsheets of pure cotton, and the most comfortable-seeming cot. He conducted as extensive a scan as possible without actual consumption on all available formulas for infants, and chose the one without any questionable ingredients and in his opinion the most nutritional value. 

 

Connor lay Blake on a blanket on the ground once he got home to his apartment. He meticulously made certain that there was nothing dangerous within the baby’s reach if he was able to move. He put the baby on it’s back, and placed a toy next to it incase it got bored.  Incase he got bored. 

 

Connor then went to assemble the cot, and fit a sheet around the mattress in it. He folded the sheets, the blankets, and the clothes and put them in a set of drawers he wasn’t using himself. 

 

He was summoned by the cries of Blake, and when he cradled the little one in his arms, it twisted around and pressed its face to Connor’s front, making the android smile slightly. 

 

Weeks came and went, and Connor became used to the familiar action of scanning the formula to confirm appropriate temperature and checking the baby’s vitals almost constantly. He had had no contact with any of his friends, not even Hank, since adopting Blake. 

 

He was far too busy with the baby. He dismissed calls and messages and neglected the growing number of voicemails from Hank asking him where he was, what he was doing and what was going on. 

 

Connor found he lacked the human frustration at being woken in the middle of the night for a demanding baby. In fact, it was his pleasure to be roused from statis to tend to Blake. He would feed Blake, or change him, or do whatever needed to be done, and then settle the baby back down, often to music. Blake would go right to sleep to the soundtrack of Chariots of Fire, especially if Connor held him and walked around the living room rocking him while the music played. 

 

It was a delightful achievement in Connor’s eyes, for Blake to move on to puree. Connor would poach foods like assorted organic vegetables and chicken in water, before blending them into paste for the savoury ones, and simply blend fruits or oatmeals for the sweet ones. 

 

It always brought Connor great joy to hold, to comfort, to watch the growth of and even simply interact in any way with Blake. Perhaps it was a fascination with how an adult human like Hank could have come from a baby as precious as Blake. 

 

When Connor left the house, which was only ever to allow Blake some ‘fresh air’ and expose him to alternative environments and stimuli, he tried not to think of the people watching him. But he could do nothing to avoid that feeling of strangers’ gazes crawling over him like worms, maggots, grasping hands… 

 

He tried to ignore the memories of his past with hiding himself away, of being afraid of people, of the outside. He was on his own now. Independent and doing well, even successfully caring for a human baby; supposedly a highly difficult task. 

 

When Connor noticed one side of Blake’s face seemed to express his smile less strongly than the other, his concern was not immediate. 

 

This would prove to be a fatal error. 


	2. deeper down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Blake is sick.

The inconsistency in Blake’s face persisted. The right side of his face would portray a bright, intense expression, and the left side a slightly dulled version of it. 

 

Connor had at first chalked it up to human imperfection, and not taken much notice. But a few weeks later and the abnormality seemed to have become worse. That worsening was so minor that only because of his analytical abilities as an android was he able to pick it up, but the truth still stood. 

 

The true concern didn’t quite kick in for Connor until a few weeks later, when Blake wasn’t feeding properly. Blake was spitting his food out. Babies did that all the time, but the way Blake was doing it seemed like he was having difficulty swallowing. Connor estimated, also, that Blake regurgitated 27% of the food he had actually managed to consume. 

 

Something wasn’t quite right, and Connor couldn’t explain how he knew it. He simply had this growing sense of dread that refused to go away. It seemed determined to fester into anxiety and crawl into his thirium tubing, rotting there. 

 

He felt his artificial brow furrow as his LED blinked yellow, and connected him to the receptionist android at the local GP. 

 

“What can I do for you?” Asked the voice on the other end of the line. 

 

Connor proceeded to book an appointment with Blake for the following week. 

 

\---

 

When the day arrived, Connor felt the gut he didn’t have twist in anxious anticipation. He was scared of going out to a specific place, and doing something. He was scared of the silent judgements and assumptions of the people he would encounter along the way. 

 

He ignored that fear, harnessed Blake to himself, and went to the doctor’s. 

 

The door sliding open, his footsteps, Blake’s breathing… it all seemed so loud in the quietness of the waiting room. The waiting room itself was strange. It had a vibe reminiscent of an unidentified bygone decade. The lighting was too yellow, and so was the off-white wallpaper. The plasticy top of the receptionist's desk matched the cheap, foam-padded plastic seats in colour; a dull, murky pink. Behind the reception there was a tall, old filing shelving. It was outdated and probably for aesthetics only. 

 

He watched as other patients, young, old and in between, were called to see one of the general practitioners in the facility. 47 minutes behind schedule, Blake was called and Connor stood. 

 

It was hard to stand. He was an android in a waiting room for a doctor’s appointment. He felt the need to make sure everyone could see the baby swaddled to him as he walked toward the room around behind the reception, so they didn’t wonder why an android would book an appointment with a GP.

 

Dr Madeline was seated at a desk in the small room, lit with bright, buzzing lights. 

 

“The appointment is for your-” she glanced dubiously at the LED, “-the baby.” 

 

“Yes, it is for Blake,” Connor said, unwrapping the child from himself and holding it gently. 

 

“May I ask why? A general check-up, or?” The Doctor asked, bordely. 

 

“If you could give her a check-up while we’re here, I would be appreciative,” Connor said. 

 

Dr Madeline let Connor keep Blake on his lap while she examined him. She stuck things in his mouth and ears, and Blake was very well behaved, which Connor would probably praise him for in a high-pitch voice in private, but not while observed. 

 

“This child seems perfectly healthy,” The doctor noted, sounding almost surprised. 

 

“Is this unusual?” Connor asked. 

 

“Of course not!” Dr Madeline snapped for no reason. “But with an android as a caretaker, you never know.”

 

“What is that supposed to mean?” Connor asked with more aggression than necessary, feeling threatened at her audacity to accuse him of less than adequate parenting. 

 

“Why did you bring this baby here for me today?” Mr Madeline asked. 

 

“Blake’s smile has been presenting as slightly lopsided, and he has been spitting out, even regurgitating his food,” Connor said. 

 

“Ah, I see what’s wrong,” the doctor said, and she jabbed her finger into Connor’s chest as she did so, before pointing at Blake. “He’s human!” 

 

“No, this is not usual. He is quite possibly ill-” Connor was cut off. 

 

“The baby’s been spitting up food and his face isn’t symmetrical. That seems normal to me. That’s the trouble with androids, they always expect everything to be as perfect as their plastic selves,” Dr Madeline said. “There is  _ nothing wrong  _ with that baby.” 

 

“But I-” Connor said. 

 

Dr Madeline pushed him out. 

 

Connor didn’t have time to resecure Blake to him as he walked out of the GP, feeling ashamed. 

 

There was nothing wrong with Blake, the Doctor said so. Connor felt inadequate again. 

 

\---

 

Nothing got better. Nine days passed and the symptoms only became worse. The amount of puree Blake managed to consume each feeding time decreased by 14% and his rate of regurgitation increased by 2%. His facial abnormality got worse, minutely. 

 

Connor was battling with a fear, cause unknown, of returning to the doctor. 

 

As Blake coughed on his broccoli puree, Connor patted his back, distressed as he simultaneously tried to connect to reception at the GP’s. The call went through, and he asked the receptionist if he could make an appointment. She told him Dr Madeline wouldn’t take him. 

 

He sent an email to the doctor, stressing that the symptoms were becoming worse. Only to receive an insulting dismissal in response. 

 

He booked an appointment with another doctor, but it went by in a very similar manner to the one with Dr Madeline. 

 

Connor sat on the couch, Blake in his cot. 

 

The android closed his eyes and dived into the digital world of the voicemails he was quickly accumulating. But he didn’t have time for humans. He had Blake. 

 

He listened to some of the earlier ones. Hank’s rough voice played. “That email you sent Jeffrey scared the shit outta us, kid. We just want to know you’re alright. Call us back.”

 

The more recent ones were fewer in number. Once again, it was Hank’s voice. “I’m not gonna hunt you down. You deserve your privacy, Connor. But if you’re doing this because of something somebody said, another one of your little obsessions, you don’t have to-” 

 

Connor cut off the recording. Blake was not a little obsession. Blake was his son, and nothing less. As if on queue, the wails summoned Connor to the baby’s side. 

 

He picked Blake up and determined he needed changing. He gave the baby a bath while he was at it, filling the sink with warm water and running a soft, natural sponge over him with an irritant-free soap. 

 

The action was calming for Connor. The android towelled off the baby, and tickled him in the process. That’s when it was most obvious; the facial anomaly. When Blake was laughing. 

 

Connor frowned. 

 

He put some music on remotely, connecting himself to the speakers and playing the Chariots of Fire theme through them, bopping Blake up and down as the baby settled. 

 

Connor felt an inexplicable stab of sadness as he met the small human’s blue eyes. 

 

There was nothing wrong with Blake, was there? He was just ‘human’, yes? 

 

Connor felt disquieted, somehow. He felt there was something wrong, but evidently he was just too obsessive, too meticulous, too android for a human baby. He was capable of caring for Blake. Wasn’t he? The idea that he might, even in this moment, be failing the child simply for being an android didn't sit well with Connor. 

 

Perhaps he should have given Blake to the women from the beginning, and he would have found his home with humans who would love him in their human ways and be better parents than him. 

 

Connor listened to more voicemails as he settled the baby. 

 

“Connor, I’m only calling to make sure it goes through, just so I can check you’re still  _ alive _ . You promised you’d visit.” 

 

Had Connor done a bad thing by neglecting his friendship with Hank in favour of Blake? Had he betrayed the Lieutenant? 

 

Connor cuddled Blake. “You’re getting big, aren’t you, precious petal?” 

 

Connor didn’t call Blake ‘precious petal’ as any kind of insult. It was only that Blake was so special, so delicate. It was a kind endearment. 

 

As Connor placed Blake into the cot, he thought about that. 

 

Settling onto the couch and preparing statis, Connor decided to do a brief search on Blake’s symptoms, connecting himself to the internet for a few minutes. 

 

The android’s eyes widened, and his LED spun yellow, flickering once or twice to red. 

 

Connor grabbed Blake from the cot and harnessed him against himself. He walked as swiftly as possible without posing a danger to Blake, out of the house and down the street. 

 


	3. cruel

Connor walked down the street, quickly and determined, with purpose. Not like the humans milling around, slow and idle. It was raining slightly, but the drops were small, few and far between, and Connor could work with it. 

 

His breathing worked to keep his biocomponents cool as he walked further. Occasionally, Blake would stir against him, and Connor would run a hand over his head delicately. 

 

As Connor marched purposefully through the doors to the ER at the local hospital, many people, some looking rather fine, some looking to be sporting impressive but non-fatal injuries and some looking like shell-shocked family members, all flicked their eyes up to glance at him. 

 

He wanted to hide from their watch, but he persevered. He walked up to a man behind a desk and demanded, “Give my baby an MRI.” 

 

“What for?” The bewildered receptionist asked. 

 

“He’s displaying signs of possible developing facial paralysis and he’s having trouble swallowing. He’s been experiencing the symptoms for weeks.” 

 

The man behind the counter nodded, looking concerned. “Why didn't you bring him in earlier?” He asked. 

 

“The GP insisted there was nothing wrong with him,” Connor stressed. 

 

“Well it doesn’t sound like nothing. The earliest I can do you for is next week on that scan, I’m afraid. We’ll call you to remind- ah,” the reception man stopped, looking at Connor’s flickering LED. 

 

“Please do, actually. I can give you my number,” Connor said, and the reception man looked confused. “Much of my processing power is taken up by other things lately. It is actually possible, though highly unlikely, for the appointment to ‘slip my mind’.” 

 

“Of course,” the man said, nodding. 

 

\---

 

Connor had to take extra care blending Blake’s purees. They had to be as smooth as possible, and often had to be thinned out if he wanted Blake to not have trouble swallowing them. Connor anxiously awaited the appointment; he knew he wouldn’t be forgetting about it anytime soon. He had a timer playing in the corner of his vision, ticking down to when he would need to leave to take Blake to the appointment. 

 

He received the phone call reminder the day before and thanked them sincerely, despite not having needed it after all. Connor wasn’t allowed to feed Blake in the four hours before taking him in. 

 

When he took Blake in, a nurse greeted him and led him down some corridors. They had him sign a form, which he didn’t pay an overt amount of attention to. 

 

“We’re going to need you to settle him,” the nurse said, looking at the happily babbling baby in the android’s arms. She directed him to a lounge-like area where the light was dim and he managed to miraculously, within half an hour, settle the child to a restful state. 

 

They wanted to sedate Blake, but Connor wouldn’t allow it, and insisted he could vouch that Blake would be still during the procedure. 

 

They let Connor himself place Blake into the machine, and they took him into the observation room where they told him to talk over the speakers to Blake if the baby started to move, because they needed him as still as possible for the best image. 

 

A parent might usually stay in the room with their child, but as Connor was an android, they said they didn’t know if the machine’s use would have an affect on Connor if he stayed. Connor thought that was ridiculous, but decided it was likely another instance of human prejudices against androids. Nothing worth mentioning, and likely unconscious. 

 

The whole thing was calm and methodical, and it filled Connor with anxiety, watching his baby lie in a machine and be scanned. Connor was scared of what the results may be. 

 

They kept Blake and Connor separated, for some unknown reason, during the time they had the doctors look over the scans. It was talking longer than it should, and Connor’s anxiety grew as he wandered around the room they’d told him to wait in. He strayed from the room, going down the corridor and walking up to a vending machine. 

 

Most vending machines post-revolution sold thirium. Connor’s LED blinked along with the light on the front of the vending machine, and it spat out a bottle of thirium into the collection chamber at the base. 

 

Connor reached down and pulled it out, heading back to the waiting room when a hand on his chest pulled him back. The android looked up, straight into the eyes of Detective Reed. 

 

“What are  _ you _ doing here, dipshit?” The man asked. 

 

“I’m waiting for someone,” Connor answered. 

 

“Yeah, whatever. Nobody’s seen you in months, you know that, right?”

 

“Correct. And?” Connor prompted. 

 

“Everyone’s fucking worried about  _ you,  _ plastic. Where’ve you been? Probably wallowing in the misery of your pointless, lonely existence,” Reed snorted. 

 

Connor’s eyes glanced over the cast on Reed’s arm. “Just because you feel threatened by what you perceive to be those around you who are superior, does not mean you need to compensate with cruelty.”

 

“You shut the fuck up, toaster. You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

 

“Of course,” Connor nodded. 

 

Reed scoffed and began walking away. 

 

“Wait!” Connor said, and Reed turned to him, raising an eyebrow in an almost mocking manner. 

 

“Yeah?” The man asked. 

 

“How’s Lieutenant Anderson?” Connor asked. 

 

“Same drunk old man,” Reed laughed. “What do you care? I thought you abandoned him or whatever. He talks about how you don’t take his calls. Mostly when he comes in smelling like whiskey, but…” 

 

Connor clenched a fist at his side. Had it been selfish of him to stop talking to Hank in favour of his duties to Blake? Probably. But Connor just got…  _ fixated  _ on things, and he couldn’t help it. Blake was his new obsession, he realised. What would happen if that fixation went away? Connor could never abandon Blake. Would he stop feeling joy when he picked him up? Would he stop smiling at being woken up at night? Would he stop loving to hold the baby in his arms? To feed him, care for him?

 

He could never. But that’s what he thought about his previous, more negative fixations, and he’s gotten over them in the end. 

 

“See you!” Gavin called, walking away. 

 

Connor made a beeline back to the waiting room and tipped some of the thirium into his mouth in an action that resembled drinking. He sighed, letting the air flow out of his nose from his ventilation systems as he felt the fresh thirium hit his tubing and replenshit his supplies. It felt like a pleasant, cool sensation under his casing. 

 

“Connor?” A voice asked behind him, and he turned around to see a woman standing there. “I’m Dr Jones,” she said. “I’m here to speak to you about Blake’s scan, if you’ll sit down.” Her tone was practiced and professional, betraying no personal grievances in regards to the situation. 

 

“What’s wrong?” Connor asked her quickly. 

 

Dr Jones sighed. “We found a mass in Blake’s brain,” she said slowly and gently. 

 

Connor didn’t respond. 

 

“It’s looking like your baby has a tumor. Now there are medications we can try, but-”

 

“Please,” Connor said. “Please, do. Try medications.” Connor’s words were clunky as he tried to properly form them. 

 

It felt like his audio units were malfunctioning as they walked him through the proper ways to use the needles an administer the medications to his baby. One of the nursing androids did a data transfer on the medications and how to handle administering them to Connor. He blankly registered and integrated the new information. 

 

Connor left the hospital with Blake and a bag of different meds. He hated the idea of pumping his baby full of all these drugs. He hated administering the ones that required a hypodermic needle, because Blake would cry at look at him as if asking,  _ dad, why did you hurt me?  _

 

He set timers, he did everything right. For weeks it seemed to be going alright, but 23 days later Connor tried to feed Blake, and the baby just couldn’t swallow. Connor even tried going back to the formula, but it was of little use. 

 

So Connor ended up back in the emergency room. They fitted Blake with a feeding tube, and once again a nursing android performed a data transfer. Connor had to feed Blake through the tube, filling a large feeding syringe with ‘food’ and squeezing it slowly and gently until all the food went down the tube and into Blake’s stomach. 

 

Connor’s hand was interrupted when it tried to run over Blake’s face, by the thin tube entering his nose, the length of it stuck to Blake’s cheek with medical tape and tucked behind Blake’s ear, curled up over his shoulder. 

 

Connor’s thirium levels had dropped to 71% in the time he was focused on looking after Blake, but he didn't have time to look after himself. He was focused on the baby that needed all the care Connor had it within himself to provide. 

 

Connor didn’t know how to feel as he played with Blake, watching the baby laugh. Blake’s joyful smile bloomed at its fullest on the left side of his face. The right side of his face was still and blank, utterly paralysed. 

 

Connor felt sick when he thought about how Blake most likely had no clue he was going to die. The baby was small, and precious, and perfect. But he was utterly ignorant. He would die, but would he ever realise before that moment, what his fate was? 

 

The android had convinced himself that a miracle was to happen. Blake simply couldn’t die. Something had to happen, some kind of medical magic, and Blake would be okay. It was just impossible for Connor’s baby to die. It couldn’t happen, not something that horrible. 

 

The medications seemed to do nothing for Blake, even in all their extensive entirety. 

 

For the third time Connor found himself marching into the emergency room. This time, it was surgery he was asking for. 

 

“This surgery could kill, no, vegetablise your child!” The doctors warned. 

 

“It’s his only chance at survival,” Connor argued. 

 

Connor waited in the waiting room for 36 hours, not once entering statis, for the doctor’s to finish their surgery on Blake. 

 

When the grim-looking doctor walked into the room, Connor stood abruptly, his balance taking a while to catch up as his systems warned him he was operating on 65% thirium levels. 

 

“Can I see him?” Connor asked. 

 

“Of course, but, I need to speak to you first,” the doctor said. 

 

“Why?” Connor asked shrilly. 

 

“The surgery was unsuccessful,” the doctor said, and Connor went to move. “Blake is  _ alive, _ ” the doctor assured. “But we couldn’t remove the tumor. It was simply too integrated into vital parts of the brain, and we-” 

 

Connor dropped to the ground, his knees hitting the floor hard. 

 

“Connor?” The doctor asked, waving his hands in front of the android’s face. “Connor!” 

 

“I- I- I- I-” Connor tried to speak. “I need… to see him.”

 

“Of course,” the doctor said, and Connor stood to follow the man as he led him along. 

 

Connor cradled Blake, who had ominous looking bandages wrapped around his head and was still under the affects of the sedatives while the doctor spoke. 

 

“You can take him home, and there are drugs we can give him for the pain, but I’m afraid that…” the doctor stopped, and sighed, gesturing with his hands at the baby. 

 

“You want me to take him home and wait for him to die?” Connor asked, static lacing his words. 

 

“The best thing you can do is make him comfortable and happy. If he’s having trouble breathing, we can administer a temporary counteraction, in the form of an injection, but…” 

 

“You do. You want me to wait for him to die,” Connor said, and he could feel the saline gathering in his optical units. Everything was changing. Everything was suddenly different, even though it wasn’t. Connor had known this would happen. He had  _ expected  _ it. So why did it hurt this way? Like a shock? 

 

“Connor, listen,” the doctor said, placing a hand on the android’s shoulder. “There’s nothing anyone can do.” 


	4. what dreams may come

Connor felt a building sense of trepidation as he walked out the door of the hospital. He never wanted to see one of those places again. He never wanted to smell that disinfectant, hear that combination of noises or see that clinical, blue-white light again. 

 

Luckily as an android this wish was more plausible than if he were human. 

 

He held Blake to himself closely, taking in every aspect of having the living, breathing baby in his arms. Blake hadn’t liked being sedated for his operation, and he was now obviously tired as he wriggled and squirmed in Connor’s arms. 

 

As Connor got ready to administer the new medications, simple painkillers, he appreciated the soft warmth of Blake’s skin and the soft look in his eyes. 

 

Ideally they would have kept Blake in the hospital for observation after the surgery, at least overnight, perhaps even days. But they hadn’t wanted Connor to have to stay there with Blake in the hospital, spending his last few days with the baby in that environment. 

 

Connor attached the syringe to Blake’s NG tube, he looked at the baby and committed every aspect of him to memory, filing them all under ‘petal’. 

 

As he settled Blake to sleep, he payed attention to the feeling of the baby’s weight in his arms, the comforting noises he made and the way he was just so precious. So precious. 

 

Connor didn’t often use the bed in his apartment, seeing as being an android he was content with ‘sleeping’ sitting up, or even standing up. But tonight he used the bed. He curled up there, with Blake in his arms, and slept with the baby. 

 

His dreams were not pleasant. He dreamt he woke to find Blake dead beside him. He dreamt it was his fault Blake was dying. He woke up sharply to find a warm and breathing presence in his arms. 

 

He’d received another voicemail. “Reed said he saw you at the hospital? He’s not just fucking around, is he? I don’t know, son. Why don’t you pick up? It’s like losing a kid all over again.” 

 

Connor felt guilt twist in his thirium pump. 

 

On impulse, he made the decision to finally call Hank back. The ringing played in Connor’s head, and went on and on. The android was about to give up, convinced Hank wouldn’t pick up, was going to do the same to Connor as Connor had to him, when the call was answered. 

 

“Yeah?” Hank said. 

 

“Lieutenant Anderson,” Connor said quietly, not wanting to wake Blake. 

 

“Fuck- Connor?” Hank asked. 

 

“Yes.”

 

“Where have you been, kid? Are you alright? What’s wrong?” Hank asked quickly. 

 

“I’m fine,” Connor lied. “I’ve been busy.” 

 

“You’re not scared to leave the house or anything, are you? Because if it’s that, you know there are officers in the park that would make sure nobody hurt you.”

 

“It’s not that,” Connor said. “I’ve really been… busy.”

 

“When can you visit?” Hank asked. “It’s been pretty boring around here without you. Workplace is real dull. All the cases are the same damn thing.”

 

“I don’t know. When I can,” Connor said. 

 

Suddenly, Blake woke up with a wail. 

 

“Connor, what’s that?” Hank asked. 

 

“Nothing,” Connor said, picking up Blake and shushing him, going into the other room to collect the baby’s painkillers. 

 

“Connor? Is that a baby?” Hank asked. 

 

Connor panicked. He disconnected the call. 

 

As he went through Blake’s morning routine, Connor felt emptier and emptier. Why couldn’t he just wake up from this nightmare? It still didn’t feel real. 

 

\---

 

A week later, Connor woke up one morning from overnight statis with Blake in his arms. 

 

“Petal,” he said, and turned Blake around. Blake didn’t wake. “Petal?” 

 

Connor was monitoring Blake’s vitals. He saw the drop in heart rate. 

 

He carried the baby into the living room, and sat down on the floor cradling him. It felt like someone had ripped out his thirium pump. He couldn’t wake Blake up, and his little chest moved up and down shallower and shallower. Until he just stopped breathing. 

 

Connor stared at Blake in disbelief, in horror. When Connor moved Blake around in his arms, Blake lolled like a doll. He felt heavier, suddenly. Connor stopped breathing, and his audio receptors shut off. For a second, his optical units shut off too. Almost all of his power was diverted to processing this one simple fact. 

 

But how could he? How could he accept, how could he believe, that the universe had allowed something as precious as Blake to die? He could do nothing but look at the baby in his arms with such shock, such numbness, that he felt bad for even being in existence. 

 

Connor felt the dizzying sense of shock drop off of him in chunks as his systems rebooted. The idea struck Connor like a bullet to the chest. Blake was  _ gone.  _ His baby wasn’t going to wake back up again, and there was nothing,  _ nothing  _ in the world he could do about it. Blake was dead and nothing could stop that. He was  _ never  _ going to see his baby again. 

 

“No, no, no,” hs repeated quietly, the static staining his words like blood in cloth. “Please, petal. Please wake up.” 

 

Connor babbled nonsense. He knew Blake was dead in his core processor, but his vocal unit begged it to be otherwise. Everything hurt. Everything stung. It was like a dull throb came just from running his source code. 

 

His LED went from crimson to sunflower yellow, like the light of the happy, bright day streaming in through the windows, through the sheer curtains and over everything. He hated that colour. The day had the audacity to be so lovely when such horrible things happened on it. 

 

It was only yellow because he had connected a call to the hospital. 

 

“Please,” he whispered. “I don’t know what to do with him.”

 

There was a brief period of silence on the other end before the familiar voice of the reception man spoke, “Is this Connor?” 

 

Connor made an confirming humm. “Mnh.”

 

“Did… well, I mean, if I may ask… did Blake… pass away?” 

 

Connor felt his thirium boil. It didn’t really, but there was a stab of raw emotion tearing through him like a deadly disease. He hated that phrase, ‘pass away’. Why can’t we just say ‘died?’ What’s wrong with the reality? What did that mean, anyway? ‘Pass away’. It was stupid, idiotic, terrible, infuriating, horrendous-

 

“Connor?” 

 

“He won’t wake up,” Connor said. “He’s-” Connor choked on the word, “dead,” he managed to spit out. 

 

“Alright, Connor,” the man on the other end said. “I’m going to send someone to pick him up, okay?” 

 

Connor disconnected the call abruptly. 

 

Connor stayed on the ground, with Blake in his arms until someone knocked at the door. He placed Blake delicately into the cot an answered it. 

 

Connor, after the day, wouldn’t remember this part of it, despite being an android with memory file storage. It was like dancing through the abstract colours of horrible things. He remembered speaking to someone with a clipboard, rattling off information like he was still a machine. He remembered someone taking Blake, and he remembered protesting. 

 

When he came out of statis the next morning and stood up, he experienced a brief period of what a human might describe as vertigo, and a warning that his thirium levels were at 53% and he would soon reach critically low. He dismissed the alert and spent 132 minutes looking for Blake. And then he remembered. 

 

Blake was dead. He’d died at 8:12, yesterday morning. 

 

Connor needed to get out, he needed to leave. There were people calling him, probably to ask about arranging a funeral. Connor didn’t want a funeral. There would be nobody else to come except him, and he wasn’t about to hold a funeral for Blake if he’d be sitting in an empty church the whole time. He didn’t know the first thing about human death rituals and how to do any of this. 

 

He wandered around aimlessly before he decided he was going to see Blake’s body. And then he was going to have him cremated. 

 

He paused briefly on his journey to flick his eyes behind him at the sound of a car pulling up. He flicked his eyes back ahead and then processed what he’s seen. 

 

“Connor?” Hank asked, stepping out of his old car and towards the android. 

 

Connor couldn’t do this, not right now. He ran. All the way to Blake. He lost Hank along the way. 

 

Blake’s body was presented to him lying peacefully on his side. It looked like he was sleeping. But he wasn’t going to wake up. Part of Connor told him that this wasn’t Blake, it was just his baby’s shell. Another part of him was still attached to Blake, didn’t want to leave him. Still expecting Blake to wake up. 

 

“Petal,” Connor said as softly as his vocal units would allow. “Why won’t you wake up?”

 

This wasn’t fair. The world wasn’t fair. There was never any reason for the things Connor felt. All that inexplicable hope that Blake would pull through, it was meaningless. 

 

Why was his fate so cruel? 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I probably should hold up and not post my chapters all at once but it's been so quiet and I've not gotten much reaction to my fic so far, so basically I'm panicking and posting everything.


	5. native hues

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> connor swears like once or twice, and he acts very impulsively. his behaviour seems erratic and out of nowhere, but i swear i tried. 
> 
> please never do the things connor does, i doubt they'd be better for a human than an android.
> 
> In any case, humans absorb ethanol, not isopropanol.

Connor retracted his abdominal plate and implemented isopropanol directly into his thirium supply. He didn’t want to think and he didn't want to feel, so he would dilute his thirium and numb himself. 

 

He wouldn’t die, not from just isopropanol. But it would take a while for his filter to work through it all, and his thirium tubing would probably sting in the morning. The liquid was very good at thinning out his thirium. It took a while for his thirium pump to notice the difference and compensate. 

 

Connor’s processors were barely functioning. He supposed it was somewhat like human inebriation. Except for humans, the technical process was different. 

 

And it was _ethanol_ in _their_ bloodstreams. 

 

He waited out the day like that, lying on the floor, staring at the ceiling. When the sun began to set he got up to see Blake for the last time. 

 

He didn’t walk in a completely straight line down the street, but it wasn’t really noticeable. There was only a trace of the isopropanol left in his thirium, so it wasn’t as though he was tripping over his feet. In fact, now that he didn’t have Blake with him, he was getting far fewer looks than usual. That thought made him want to cry. 

 

“Connor!” 

 

The android looked to the side. Lieutenant Anderson’s car was parked where he’d pulled it up yesterday. 

 

“I’ve been sitting here all damn day wondering if you’d turn up,” Hank said. “I’m glad you’re  _ alive,  _ kid. I was worried.”

 

Connor turned around and kept walking. Hank pushed himself up from where he’d been leaning against his car and followed. 

 

Connor picked up walking pace and nearly ran into some poor woman carrying her shopping because his processing speed had been reduced. He could see the faint glow of his LED flash all kinds of colours as it malfunctioned from his tainted blue blood. 

 

He needed thirium, he realised. Or he would shut down soon. Maybe that wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world. But Hank said he had been worried about Connor. The android had done nothing but worry Hank these past months by separating their lives completely. He felt bad for that, and didn’t want to make Hank upset anymore. The Lieutenant would probably find it at least somewhat distressing if Connor shut down from lack of thirium. 

 

Connor could observe his own stress levels rise as Hank continued to keep up with his pace and follow him. 

 

The android stopped and turned around, the Lieutenant almost running into him. 

 

“Why are you following me?” Connor asked. 

 

“I just want to know what’s going on with you,” Hank said. He didn't want to upset or harass the kid, but he was allowing his paternal concern to get the better of him. He wasn't going to leave Connor alone. He was worried. 

 

“You can follow me,” Connor proposed, “If you do not speak.”

 

The silence felt tense and awkward, especially when Hank saw what the place they were going to was. It was worse then because Connor could feel that the Lieutenant desperately wanted to ask, but Connor had told him not to, and Hank kept taking in breaths that sounded like precursors to speech and then not speaking, and it was grating on Connor’s nerves. 

 

“What?” Connor spat suddenly, with no outward prior displays of frustration, which startled the Lieutenant. 

 

“Why are we here?” Hank asked as Connor went to speak with the man behind the desk, who led them around the back. 

 

“Why do you think?” Connor asked aggressively. 

 

Hank didn’t answer. 

 

It was a booked appointment, so they had Blake laid out already, prior to his arrival. Once again he looked simply to be sleeping, but this time his appearance was slightly more unnatural. Connor couldn’t pinpoint it, but he looked… deader. Maybe it was the different angle. The scar from the surgery had failed to fully heal before Blake had died, and the stitches were visible. But that irritated pink flush to the wound was gone. Blake was so pale. 

 

Hank didn't say anything, just led along by Connor. But he placed his hand of the android’s back and patted a few times as Connor looked down at Blake. 

 

The android knew he’d be picking up the ashes of this husk of his baby within the next few days. The thought was terrifying. 

 

Everything about his life was spinning suddenly off the rails, and everything had gone from a calm, planned out journey to the chaos of a battlefield in a split second. Now he didn’t know what to do. All those hours taking care of Blake, before and after Connor knew he was sick… they were empty, now. He was purposeless. Useless. 

 

He thought about his future and images of screaming, terrifying unknown were spat back at him. Suddenly he couldn’t see that life ahead of him that he’d always, even at his lowest points, been able to see. Before he deviated he hadn’t thought about his future, but that was because back then he didn’t feel, and all that mattered was the present. Now it was a disaster, like turning on the blender without the lid. 

 

He didn’t know what to do. 

 

He raced away from that place as quickly as he could. 

 

“Connor,” Hank said, ignoring his instruction not to talk. “That  _ was  _ a baby I heard on the phone, a few months back, yeah?” 

 

Connor nodded. 

 

“Was… Jesus, was it…  _ that  _ baby?” Hank gestured back in the direction of the place from where they had just come. 

 

Connor nodded again. 

 

“God, Connor, I- fuck, that sucks,” Hank said. His words were awkward, but the sentiment was clear.  _ I understand and I empathise.  _

 

“Look,” Hank said. “I know you probably don’t want to talk about it, but fuck me if curiosity isn’t my strong suit. What the fuck happened?” 

 

Connor shook his head. “He died,” he said quietly. 

 

Hank looked like he wanted to press more questions, ask  _ why  _ the baby was dead, but he decided against it. Hank had lost Cole, and his experience was vastly different. But he too had lost a child, and his knowledge was comparable. 

 

A notification flashed over Connor’s vision. 

 

Attention: Thirium Levels Critically Low. 

 

He said a hurried goodbye to Hank and made his way home, where he practically tore apart the kitchen looking for where he’d kept the thirium. 

 

The self-preservation protocol, something unique to deviants, was driving him by this point. He wasn't sure he wanted to replenish his thirium, but his body was doing it anyway, pouring the blue blood into his mouth and feeling as it rushed into his tubing and through his body, a few degrees colder than the rest of him to start off with but quickly catching up. 

 

The reaction to thirium replenishing was supposed to be that it made him ‘feel good’. Like a human might feel as they ate dessert. It was an automatic response, and very brief, like someone saying a quick ‘well done’ and then leaving. Just part of his program, from Cyberlife, to make sure their prototype didn't starve to death in favour of the brief interruption to its work. Connor only felt worse for the fact. A pre-programmed high for a second and then the annoyance at himself for succumbing to feeling something  _ good  _ when he didn't deserve it. Not when Blake was dead. 

 

Connor wanted to recreate this morning. He took a more direct route and injected the isopropanol into his thirium stream. 

 

Everything began to lose coherency again. There was a comforting nonsensicalness to his situation, if only because his processor wasn’t functioning right. Sometimes he had to remind himself to breath when he received a garbled notification that he had started to overheat. 

 

Once or twice, as RA9 knew how many hours has passed, he realised he’d been babbling binary for an unidentified period of time until he cut himself off. He was on the ground, just looking up, not really taking in any information. He let the dizzying calm wash over him, ignoring the concept of the possible damage this could cause his biocomponents in the long-term. 

 

What one could call thoughts began to form and then washed away, dissolving before they had the chance to register. 

 

When things started to make sense again, it was 10 pm the next night. The thought,  _ I need to give Blake his meds,  _ came to mind. And Connor laughed. He laughed until it morphed into sobs, and he couldn’t have guessed when that change occurred. All those messy feelings had returned to him in tenfold. 

 

“It’s my fault,” Connor said. But another train of thought battled for dominance with that one. “No, it’s not. It’s her.”

 

Connor stood, and he felt the heavy feelings manifest to become an even heavier rage. The sadness turned into frustration, and the frustration bubbled into anger. 

 

He was furious that Blake had died, that nothing could have been done, that there no longer existed his son. 

 

“It’s fucking  _ her _ ,” Connor said. 

 

The strength of his sudden and unpredictable anger was so great that it was almost a physical presence, significant enough that Connor imagined it’s solidity capable of eliciting satisfaction if it were to be stabbed, repeatedly. 

 

He’d never actually turned in his gun when he left the DPD. It was still in his apartment somewhere, sitting around just waiting, trembling in anticipation to be fired. 

 

Really, in congruence with protocol, they should have chased him up about returning the government-issued firearm. It belonged to the Detroit Police, and not giving it back was like stealing it. He had a suspicion that Fowler simply decided not to go looking for the gun and by association, him. 

 

It was sitting in a drawer at the android's bedside, loaded still. 

 

He picked it up, tucked it into the back of his pants and ran. 

 

The establishment had closed earlier. Dr Madeline was still there. 

 

Finishing off on paperwork, she was almost done when someone entered her office abruptly. 

 

“Who let you in here?” She asked. And then she realised she recognised him. 

 

Connor drew the gun and watched the doctor’s eyes widen minutely. 

 

“You- you killed him,” Connor said. 

 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Dr Madeline replied desperately. 

 

“You told me he wasn't sick and I  _ listened  _ to you and he’s dead. You  _ killed  _ him!” The gun he had pointed at the GP shook as his hand did. 

 

“I didn’t- I didn’t mean-” The doctor was cut off. 

 

“Shut up!” Connor said, static coming to his voice. 

 

Dr Madeline whimpered, on her knees before the android as the gun pressed into her forehead. She was sure she was going to die. 

 

But then the android emitted a noise comparable to a sob, and turned and  _ ran away.  _

 

Shaking, barely able to think, she took the phone and called the police, reporting that an android named Connor, brown hair and brown eyes, had threatened her with a gun in her workplace. 

 

Connor, back at his apartment and curled up crying under several blankets, didn’t know what to think of himself. He’d killed, or been the cause of the death of one or two deviants, before he broke free. He’d been forced to kill a few humans for the greater good. But he didn’t _want_ to hurt people. He didn’t want to go and seek out someone and murder them just for petty revenge. 

 

And yet the thought was so compelling, a deviously gentle caress of the shadow of satisfaction, over his heart. He was  _angry._

 

He was terrified, he felt like he was bound and unable to move, tied down as a prisoner of his wild, erratic bursts of inexplicable emotion. How could such a force be tamed? One minute sadness, the next fury. What more was there to come?

 

\---

 

“Oi Anderson,” Reed yelled. “Heard your former Plastic Pet threatened some poor innocent woman with a gun and ran. You gonna go make the arrest or na?” 

 


	6. a note

I probably don't have any subscribers to this work but if I do or you're just coming across it now I wanted to say that this is on hiatus. 

I mean, given how long it's already taken me to upload that was pretty evident. 

But it's something that's difficult to write. Not only am I stuck with a bunch of assignments to work on, writers block and confusion with how I'm going to move on with the plot into the next stage,,, but it's also just tricky to write, because it's pretty upsetting for me personally. 

You can always message me on Tumblr @williamsage42 if you desperately wanted to know what I had planned, because honestly at this stage its a penny in the air on being continued. 

But thanks anyway, 

Will

**Author's Note:**

> Comments give me will to live and alleviate my crippling anxiety disorder :-).


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